Someday, Maybe
by ThreeJays
Summary: Elena's drunk and Damon's looking like a target. But is it really that simple?  ONESHOT Damon/Elena *Post 2x09* - not nearly as fluffy as you might expect - Rated T for language and some adult-ish content.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This break is killing me. So I wrote this ridiculous little oneshot, probably could've been a two parter, but you know me. Lazy and impatient. ;-) This picks up after 2x09, but assumes Rose is not living with the boys. It may assume Rose doesn't exist, I don't really know. At any rate, it's no masterpiece, but I hope you enjoy! And thank you to all who reviewed 50 Days of Not Forgetting. I've been inspired and touched and without them I never would've bothered posting this. So, thanks. Drop me a line if you have a minute - it really is such a lovely and appreciated thing.**

Giggling is what wakes him, soft girly laughter drifting up from the first floor. It's followed by a chorus of shushing noises loud enough to raise the dead. Someone bumps into something and the laughter starts anew. He's all for a party, but talking boys with the Mystic Falls cheerleading squad…well, alright, it has a certain appeal, but that's not the point.

The point is, when he gave her that key, it was for _emergencies._ This isn't Jersey Shore for vampires.

Damon throws back his blankets and stares sulkily at the ceiling, considering all the ways he will kill Caroline for this. Fire, stake, beheading, gagging her to death on vervain? Maybe all of the above. Of course, to kill her, he'll need to break up this little slumber party.

He rolls out of bed, searching the darkness for his phone to check the time. Like it matters. It's late-thirty is what it is. And somebody just turned the stereo on at a volume that could shatter glass and kill kittens.

Club music is pounding through the air, some airhead who's probably one sticky prom-night past virginity bleating on about how to sex your man. Damon resists the urge to cringe and sails down the stairwell without hitting a single step.

He comes around the corner, snatching Caroline by the collar of her shirt until she shrieks.

"At the risk of sounding seriously parental, do you have any idea what time it is?"

She's got an apology ready in her heavily made-up eyes. Before she delivers it, Damon sees Elena in front of the stereo. She stands up, stretching her arms high overhead as she professes her love for this horseshit song.

About six inches of her torso are bared with the move. She's wearing her jeans like a second skin tonight, and her simple black tank-top is too short, too tight, too everything.

"Oooh, look, it's the evil brother!" she says when she sees him. She heads to the liquor cart, grabbing a bottle of his best scotch. "Come on, Damon. We'll play quarters."

In lieu of a response, he bares his teeth at Caroline in something that doesn't even resemble a smile.

"See, I can explain," she whimpers.

"I'd do it fast. I'm inventing ways to kill you right now."

Elena is dancing around the living room, hips writhing back and forth as she sings along, only slightly off- key.

"Okay, it's a really long story," Caroline says.

Damon presses his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. "Twitter version, Caroline, or so help me I'll find a blender and puree you."

Caroline moves close, using a soft tone. "Fine. Elena's halfway to Crazyland. She wants to send Jeremy to some boarding school and she's looking into covens for Bonnie. She's even trying to talk Jenna into getting her Master's degree…in _Pennsylvania_."

"Is there a point anywhere in there?"

"She's losing it, okay? She wants to turn herself over to that ooky warlock dude, because he thinks he can reverse the doppelganger thing. She's pushing everyone away so she's the only one in danger."

"Sounds stupid and dangerous," he says, his eyes trained on Elena's ass as she follows the sage advice of Lil' Jon and gets low. _Really_ low.

"Uh, yeah," Caroline says, giving her head a little shake. "So of course, Stefan and her got into it, because he's serious and she's serious and this mess with the doppelgangers is _so_ serious, and seriously? The girl needed a freaking time out."

"So you thought, 'Oh my God, I'll get her drunk! That'll totally fix everything!'"

"Well it was that or admit her to the psych ward. Now, you might want to get her a puke bucket. Tequila is not always Elena's friend. Trust me. I've got to go."

Elena's still singing, arms up in the air. The delicious sliver of her bare back is distracting the hell out of him.

"What?" he asks, finally processing Caroline's words and the fact that she's zipping her coat. "What? No. Hell, no! Take her home with you!"

"Yeah, right, let's take my drunk friend home to Sherriff Mom? Don't think so!" Caroline's phone rings and she pulls it out of her purse with a scowl. "God, I've got to go. She's freaking out. Just go get Stefan."

"Stefan took a little hunting road trip. Thinks he's thinning out the wildlife here too much."

She stops, eyes soft and a smile on her face. "Aw, that's soo nice."

"Cutting your head off in my mind, Caroline," he says through a tight smile.

She sticks out her tongue at him and then slips outside leaving him alone with a drunk and barely dressed girl. One that's played the starring role in most of his dirtier fantasies for the last year.

The music changes to something darker, something that would serve as a nice backdrop to any one of those fantasies. Her body goes still. He can practically hear the gears turning in her head when she turns to look at him, liquor-clouded eyes taking him in.

She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth and he takes a step back.

This is not good.

"I have an idea," she says, all sex kitten voice to match those killer heels.

"Mine's better. Coffee for you and a cold shower for me," he says, jerking his head towards the kitchen. "Move."

She slinks forward until he can smell her perfume. "I don't want coffee, Damon. I want something else."

"Sure you do. And then halfway through Act II, you'll be puking up your kidneys and sobbing about how you betrayed the only man you've ever loved. I'll pass."

"I don't think so," she says, and then she kisses him.

There's no preamble, no hesitation. Just the hard press of her mouth and the surprise of her fingers tangling in his hair. The not good is edging quickly into damn dangerous. And as much as he'd like to suck those baby soft lips into his mouth and rip that fucking shirt off, this is not Elena.

It feels…God help him, it feels _wrong_. Everything feels wrong.

He pushes her off by the shoulders, forcing a laugh. "Okay, Elena. You showed me. You're a bad, bad girl. Now, let's find some coffee and call your boyfriend."

"Stefan's not my boyfriend anymore," she says, voice husky as her hands toy with the hem of her shirt. He eyes the outfit again. This isn't Katherine. He wouldn't make that mistake twice. But this isn't Elena either, not really.

"Don't you want me, Damon?" she asks, lifting her shirt higher.

Her voice is strange. Almost too thick. Her words too carefully chosen. As if this is already played out in her mind, planned to the last line.

She peels the shirt over her head, her hair falling around her like a curtain. And then, right there, just before the shirt covers her face, he sees it.

Fear.

She's scared shitless.

And then it all makes sense. Jeremy to boarding school. Bonnie to a coven. Jenna to college. Liquid courage courtesy of Caroline. Next up, Stefan safely out of the way because she slept with his evil older brother.

She planned every damn bit of this.

Fury rushes through him like a train, rattling his bones like a set of tracks. Elena's shirt drops to the ground and she puts on her best come hither look. And fuck it all if she isn't crazy beautiful in that red and black bra that she undoubtedly chose because she thought he'd like it. And fuck it all again, because he _does_ like it.

He's beyond done with this bullshit.

He shakes his head with a growl, then rushes into her, ignoring her little frightened _meep_ as he picks her up off the ground, pulling her legs around his waist and pushing her against a wall. He pins her in a way that will make it crystal clear how much he likes that bra and her body in it. Then he splays his fingers on the backs of her thighs and nuzzles the tender flesh beneath her ear, listening to her pulse race and her breath catch.

"This what you want?" he asks.

She murmurs affirmatively, but her voice cracks. A hundred and fifty odd years as a predator does not a poor observer make. He can smell her fear, can practically taste it when he flicks his tongue into the hollow of her collarbone.

"You want to do it right here, Elena?" he asks, using that low, dirty voice that's talked the pants off of more girls than he can count.

She shakes her head, but she's trembling like a little bunny. He slides his fingers just a little closer to the juncture of her legs and she holds her breath.

He speaks low, making sure every murmured word sends a chill over her body. "Maybe I can tell you every filthy depraved thing I've ever done while we fuck."

She goes very still and stiff beneath him then, making no sound at all. But he goes on, too pissed to stop. "Recount every torn neck, broken body, every unthinkable crime. Will that work, Elena? Will that make me filthy enough for your little plan?"

Quick as you please, he sets her down. Tears are building in her eyes, but he can't look at that. Can't look at her at all.

"Damon, wait," she says, and _this _is Elena. This tortured, guilty girl. This is the one he loves.

But he still can't look. He has no idea what he'll do if he does.

"No, Elena. I've had enough." He's on the stairs now, climbing them one after the other. "There are ten guest rooms. Pick one and go to bed. If you puke on a carpet, you're cleaning it."

He downs two bags of blood from the cooler in his room and half a bottle of scotch after that. It doesn't even take the edge off. So, he drags his sorry ass into the bathroom, adjusts the faucet and kicks off his boxer shorts.

The water is blistering hot. He lets it spray hard over his head and neck until he feels his anger sliding free.

The bathroom is thick with steam when he hears his bedroom door open. He hears her enter, hears her shuffle across the thick carpet, and then the quiet shift of his mattress as she sits down in the adjoining room.

He takes his time, running shampoo through his hair and rinsing clean before he turns the water off. He dries off without speaking, pulling on the jeans he shucked off earlier and running a hand through his hair.

From the doorway to his bedroom, he spots her narrow shoulders and the back of her hair, a sleek, black ribbon that hangs nearly to her waist.

Then he hears her sniff.

"I'm sorry," she says in greeting.

He's still angry, but seeing her like this dulls the edges. He sighs, rubbing the towel over his hair. "Apology accepted. Go to bed."

"I can't," she says, her voice so quiet she almost breathes it.

"You can and you need to. This isn't going anywhere good, Elena."

She stands up and looks at him and God, it cuts right through him, the sight of her in tears. She's scrubbed the make up from her face leaving her cheeks flushed and her eyes so bright.

"I can't sleep, Damon. I can't even breathe."

He fists his hands so he won't go to her.

"I don't know what's happening to me," she says, so broken, so sad. "I hate what I've become, and I hate what I am, and I hate what it means to the people I love. I'm not even real, Damon. I'm some sort of magical elixir, a cheap copy of an original cure. And the worst thing of all is that you were right. I am like Katherine. If I didn't prove it before, I sure the hell proved it tonight."

He closes the distance between quickly, sitting beside her. He catches her face in his hands, forcing her eyes to his.

"You look at me right now. I'm a dick and that was bullshit. You are _nothing_ like Katherine. You are every good thing that I thought I saw in Katherine and then more. You're funny and sassy and, God, you're strong. Stronger than any seventeen year old girl should ever have to be, and still after all the hell you've lived through your love runs true and deep. Now, you listen to me and listen good, Elena."

She does, her tears flowing hot over his fingers as he continues. He runs his thumbs over her cheeks.

"You are better than Katherine in every possible way. _You_ are the real thing. She is the imitation."

"Damon," she says, tears clouding her eyes. It's tearing him in half seeing her like this, seeing her so broken. "I'm so sorry. Tonight…"

She shudders, as if it's unthinkable.

"It wasn't all that bad," he says, smirking.

She's not biting. "Yes, it was. It was horrible."

"I've done worse," he says, softly.

And then she leans into him, presses her tear streaked face into his bare chest. His eyes close as he breathes her in. When her arms go around his middle, her lets himself touch her, let's his fingers trail the length of her hair.

"I don't hate you," she whispers into his chest. "I want to sometimes. A lot of times. You scare me to death, Damon. And it's not because of what you've done or what you are. I'm scared that if I let myself feel anything for you, anything other than hate, that I'll never come back from it."

He feels her hands trembling at his back. Even that is enough to unravel him.

"Do you…" she trails off, her voice a whisper of air across his chest. "Are you ever scared of anything?"

"Yeah," he says, and when she tips her head up to look at him, he presses a kiss to her forehead. "Being attacked by a really hot drunk girl in my own home. Scary."

He moves to lean back, but she palms his cheeks then. "Wait."

"Elena," he says, his voice a low warning as she pulls him down. She takes her time, looking him over, her eyes straying to his lips, once, twice. Then three times.

"Just once?" She says it like she's asking for his permission. As if he wouldn't happily lop off a finger, or hell, maybe a foot for this.

He nods slowly, looking her over as he moves in. He feels her breath against his lips and time stops. It simply fails to exist as she presses a feathery kiss to his mouth. Even that, the barest pressure of her lips, sends an electric jolt through him.

He could stop right now. He could do the good, right thing and leave things chaste. Leave things safe and neat. Yeah, and pigs could fly out of his ass, too.

She slides her hands into his hair and he gives in. If it's just once, he's going to do it right. He tilts his head to taste her. She moans at the touch of his tongue and the whole game is different then.

He slides his hand to the nape of her neck, urging her into a better position. The kiss goes deep and hungry, his free arm around her back, urging her close, pulling her in until he can feel the push of her breasts against his chest.

God, he could kiss this girl forever. Her little soft sounds are driving him out of his mind. The feel of her, so tiny and warm against him. A hundred and sixty some odd years, and this is the closest to heaven he's ever gotten.

When she pulls free, she's panting, her eyes dark with desire. He closes his, before he takes this somewhere they really can't come back from.

"That…" she says shakily.

"Stop," he says, cutting her off. "If you use the word mistake in the next twenty minutes, I'm going to lose my mind, Elena. I really am."

She takes a long, shaky breath and he looks at her.

"I won't," she says. "Because it wasn't."

He tries to even out his breathing. Tries to steady…everything. Not that there's a hell of a lot of point to it. He's pretty sure some part of him is wrecked forever.

She's gnawing her lip, worry filling her eyes. But she's watching him in a way that makes him wonder if she doesn't want to kiss him again, and God, he hates himself for it, but he's got that shitty fluttering feeling in his chest.

"I'll never let this go, Elena," he says softly, and she meets his eyes, her lips still swollen. "I can't."

"I know."

"I won't tell him," he says darkly. "I know that's what you're worried about."

She doesn't answer, but she cringes a little in admission.

"But I need something from you, too."

"What?" she asks, looking wary.

He thumbs her chin. "I need you to swear you won't pretend it didn't happen."

"Like I could pretend that," she says, with a hollow laugh. Her eyes are dark when she looks at him. "But it doesn't change anything, Damon. Not today."

"Not today," he repeats, and he should stake himself right here and now for the way he turned up the last part of that statement like a question. Admitting hope.

"I don't know, Damon," she says. "It doesn't seem possible."

His chest sinks, a weight dropping through his middle, but then she touches him, her fingers on his face.

"Maybe if things were different," she says, and then he sees her take a steeling breath. He knows this is hard for her.

"Maybe someday they will be," he says, physically unable to keep the words in.

"Maybe," she says, biting her lip. Looking at his. And she smiles a little. "Maybe someday."

"Someday," he says, stealing one more quick kiss and then flopping back on his bed before she even has time to protest. "Yeah, it's always been my favorite day of the week."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Wow. You all are so sweet and all those reviews were so nice - and because you're so great, I couldn't resist adding this on. It's shorter. But I'm working on a third part, too, mostly holiday stuff because I have a feeling we're not going to get any awesome Christmas/snow/Auld Lang Syne scenes out of TVD. At least not this year. -) Anyway, thanks again so much for the kind words - though it's shorter and not quite as deep, I hope you enjoy it. One more to go. Review if you can. **

How in the hell did he become a babysitter?

A decade ago, he was an unrivaled nightmare, leaving a world-wide trail of victims that could fill a telephone book. He was ruthless. Wild. Unstoppable. Now he's Dudley Doright. With fangs.

He takes another drink of scotch and adjusts on the roof. Because this is how he's spending Friday night. Sitting on Elena's roof watching out for bad guys. Of course, she doesn't know he's here. She's too busy getting ready for Chritmas Prom or whatever the hell they're calling this town event.

He's going too, of course, but he knew Stefan would be getting ready, leaving Elena alone and unwatched for a couple of hours. Something she insists is perfectly fine. Because she's sure she can take care of herself.

She's really irritating that way. In a lot of ways, really, like the way she chews on the end of her pens, or the way she hen-pecks her brother, or the way she tears the crusts off her sandwich like she's still six years old.

Of course, true to his new pathetic self, he finds every one of those things adorable. Because he's in love. Stars in the eyes, butterflies in the stomach, the whole fucking nine yards.

There is not enough liquor in the world to dull this shame. He should stake himself and be done with it.

He shifts on the roof, tugging at the cuffs of his suit jacket. He can hear her moving around inside, fiddling with hair things and make-up. She'll look gorgeous, of course. And Stefan will pick her up, probably in a horse-drawn carriage. He'll probably give her roses and quote poetry and they'll be back together by the time they get to the corner of First and Main.

Jesus, he needs to get a life.

Inside, there's a rustle of fabric and then a sigh inside her bedroom. "Dammit."

Damon grins at the rare swear word. Elena, queen of goodness and light. What he wouldn't pay to hear her drop an f-bomb. Preferably while naked and underneath him.

"Shoot," she says again, and he can hear her struggling with something. "Jeremy!" she calls, and then she's padding through the house, searching. But Jeremy and Jenna left with Ric a few minutes earlier. They'd called up the stairs that they'd see her there, but at that point the shower had still been running.

She's back in her room now, and he can resist no longer. He hops lightly to the window sill, where he can see her struggling near the closet, her arms contorted behind her back.

Her dress just has to be red, of course.

He flashes back to that night at his house, her chest heaving in that red and black bra, her body trembling against the wall. Ruse or not, that's the kind of moment that sticks with a guy. Especially since they kissed that night. That kiss didn't have dick to do with protecting Stefan. That part was his, and he'll be damned if he's letting it go.

She turns sideways, her brow furrowed as she struggles with the zipper that runs the length of the back.

Damon slides open the window and steps inside.

"Need a hand?"

Elena shrieks like a banshee, spinning around with a murderous look in her eyes.

"Damon!"

She's clutching the front of her strapless dress to her breasts. She doesn't have her shoes on and there are still curlers in the sides of her hair and she's got to be the most breathtaking creature that's ever walked this earth. He deserves a vervain dart for this. He's a disgrace to the entire vampire race.

"Sorry," he says, smirking.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, flushing hotly.

"Calm down," he says, waving the air. "I've seen you in less."

"Damon." Her voice is a low warning, matched with flinty eyes.

"I was watching out for baddies until your Prince Charming gets here."

"I told you I'm fine."

"Yeah, I heard you saying something but you teenagers are like the parents in Charlie Brown. It's all 'mwah mwah mwah' to me."

"I'm running late," she says, dismissing him with a shake of her head.

As if everything is normal. As if she hasn't blushed everytime he's been within ten feet of her for the last three weeks.

"In that case, let me get that for you," he says,

She's going to protest. Her whole body tenses with it, but then he's behind her, one hand on the curve of her waist and one hand on the zipper. It takes everything he's got to resist lingering back there, trailing figners up the smooth skin of her back. But he does.

Once it's done, he turns her towards the full length mirror and smirks over her shoulder.

"My, my, you are a vision. You planning on leaving the curlers in?"

Her smile is tremulous in the mirror, and she pulls them out slowly, dropping them to an end table. Their eyes lock in the mirror and he actually gets a lump in his throat.

She doesn't move. His hands are still on her waist. There's something in her eyes right now, something that brings back the noises she made when he kissed her, the way her hands felt on her face.

He needs to get his ass out of this room. Right now. Because he's about two seconds from throwing this girl over his shoulder and making a run for it. He wants her that damn bad.

"You look…nice," she says.

"I'm never nice."

He steps in closer, until her back is just grazing his chest. She takes a fluttering, shaky breath. His fingers curl into the fabric at her waist. She looks like she wants to complain, but she doesn't. In the mirror, he watches her close her eyes. She tries to frown, but pulls her bottom lip between her teeth instead.

"Do you remember when we danced?" he asks, inching just a little closer so that she's firmly against him now.

Her breath hitches in her chest. Her heart races. She doesn't speak, but she nods, releasing her now glistening lip. He drops his face into her hair, breathing in the nape of her neck until she shivers.

"We're a perfect fit, Elena," he murmurs and she makes a strangled sound that sends a rush of heat to all the right places.

"Don't," she breathes, as he slides his hands down her hips, but then her hands are on top of his, her fingers clawing into his wrists.

Fucking hell.

"Don't," she says again, but she's holding him there, panting as he strokes his way back up to her ripbsfrom her thighs to her hips.

He has no idea what's going on here, but it shouldn't be affecting him like this. He can't breathe either, and he shouldn't even need to. He slides his mouth down to the curve of her shoulder, not quite kissing her, but getting damn close. She breathes his name like a prayer and he has to bite his own tongue to keep his fangs in check, he is that far gone.

"God, I wish I could dance with you tonight," he says.

"We're always dancing," she says, laughing softly. "In one way or another."

She pulls away as if nothing happened at all. He picks through her things and she resolutely ignores him, sliding on a pair of sparkly heels and a pair of earrings. He, in turn, stretches out on her bed to watch.

"I assume you know your way out," she says dismissively, and then she picks up her clutch and heads downstairs.

He watches her with a grin. Listens to her move down the stairs, turning off lights. Picking up her coat.

He stays there even when Stefan comes, eavesdropping on their mind-numbing pleasantries. He takes her to his car and Damon hears the doors shut and the engine roar to life. And then they're gone. For once, he doesn't give a shit. Stefan can have tonight. He has something better.

When he's rolled around in her delicious sheets long enough, he steals the red and black bra out of her underwear drawer and finds a tube of pink lipstick to leave a message on her mirror.

_Someday._


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: So, here's the finish - it's much fluffier than I usually go. I really, really hope you all enjoy it. Please drop me a line if you do - I'm feeling strangely paranoid about this one. Besides, reviews just rock. So hard. **

**Happy, Happy Thanksgiving to those readers in the US. I've been under the weather in the worst way and your reviews have cheered me up so much. Thank you all and may you have a wonderful holiday season. I may be back - I've got a New Year's Eve idea that won't leave me alone... ;-)**

The only thing more depressing than a bar on Christmas Eve is a half-empty bar. Two older guys in the corner and three sad looking divorcee's at the bar nursing mixed drinks does not a party make.

Happy holidays, my ass.

"Ho, ho, ho," Damon says under his breath, nodding at each of the ladies in turn.

He saunters up to the bar and feels all three of the women turn his way as he orders a scotch. The redhead isn't too bad if he can get past the freckles-God, what the _hell_ is he doing here?

Admittedly, he needs to get drunk. He also needs to get laid, and with the way said redhead is eyeing him, he could probably accomplish that one Long Island iced tea from now.

But he's a _vampire_. Is this really what being at the top of the food chain is about? Drowning his sorrows in cheap scotch and banging small-town thirty-somethings in a bathroom stall?

He needs to get the hell out of this town.

"And away from her," he says to no one, toasting his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.

He downs his drink in one gulp and leaves a twenty under his glass.

Fuck it. He's going. Right now. He's going to get free of this whole mess. Get in the car and drive until nothing at all reminds him of Elena Gilbert.

Keys out and grin in place, he pushes the door open and son of a bitch if she isn't standing right there, wearing a bright red scarf and mittens making her look like the cover of a Christmas card.

"Elena," he says, smile gone. He'd need a machete to hack through the emotions tangled up in that one word. Joy, resignation, hope, anger, fear. Love.

"I need your help," she says softly.

"Of course you do. You're speaking to me."

Her eyes reflect her surprise, a frown pulling at her mouth. "I'm sorry. Are you busy?"

"Would it matter?"

She seems taken back, crossing her arms and tilting her head. She seems to change her mind, her face closing off. "You know…nevermind. I shouldn't have come."

She turns around and starts walking.

Good. This is how it should be. She's walking away and he's going to get in the car and break every speed limit law in this country. He'll be in Vegas by Christmas afternoon. Find himself a showgirl and forget all about the last year of his life.

He allows himself one last look. She's halfway down the block, looking very small.

She could be in trouble.

"Don't you do it, Salvatore," he growls under his breath, clenching his fists painfully.

But she could be. She really could. She's like a magnet for all things fucked up.

She walks around a corner. A dark one. He starts into a run, shaking his head and griping at himself, "You whipped little piece of shit."

He's around the corner in less than a breath. "Alright, Speedy Gonzales, what's your big emergency this time?"

"It's not that big of a deal," she says. "I should get home. Jenna's trying to get us to do family stuff."

He looks around, confused. "Where's your car?"

"At home. I wanted to walk," she shrugs, stuffing her cartoonish mitten hands into her coat pockets.

"You _walked_ here?"

"I already said that," she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder and looking every bit the stuck-up bitchy cheerleader that she probably used to be.

"Okay, so I'll take it no one's at death's door. What do you need?"

"You know, you're clearly not in the mood. Don't worry about it."

She turns to leave and then there it is, rising up in him like bad, theatrical music. He wants her to wait. He actually sees himself calling after her, and her turning, tears in her eyes and his name on her lips.

Seriously? When is he going to get a clue that this shit Does. Not. Happen. Not to him.

Apparently not tonight.

He rushes her and touches her arm, spinning her around. She's not crying. She's not saying his name. She's actually shaking him off like a roach.

"They make pills for this sort of bitchy," he says. "Would you just tell me what you want?"

She takes a breath and blinks and then points a little aimlessly. Like she can't quite remember what she needs, or how to explain it.

This is unreal.

"Do you need a calculator? Or a very short bus?"

"You're a jerk, Damon. I just…I uh, wanted to know if you had anything in your library…that might help Bonnie, um, trace her family history a little better.

It's his turn to blink. A lot.

"You need me to help you help the witch with a family tree. On Christmas Eve."

She flushes hotly, throwing up her hands. "God, I don't even know why I bother."

"Well, that makes two of us. You came to _me_ for this? Bonnie wouldn't piss on me if I were on fire. She'd light the fire. Hell, she already _has_! You were there!"

"I need to go," she says, shaking her head and walking away. "I'll see you later."

"No, you probably won't," he says, because every time she walks away tonight, that damn music pops back up in his head. It's all very dramatic. The good guy dies, the Titanic sinks, and Scarlett will never, ever go hungry again.

She doesn't turn around, but she stops, her shoulders a still, straight line beneath her coat. Her voice is small and flat when she speaks.

"You're leaving? Like _leaving_ leaving?"

"Yeah," he says, and he'd love to zing her with some zippy comment about showgirls in feathers, but he can't. He just can't say anything.

"Does Stefan know?" she asks.

"I'll call him when I get there. Trust me, this will be the best thing Santa's ever brought him."

Her shoulders hitch for one second and then she nods. "Goodbye, Damon. Be safe."

And then she walks away. She doesn't even turn around.

She doesn't even fucking turn around!

That's it. He's done. Stick in the fork.

He flies back to his car on pure rage, wrenching open the door so hard, it's a miracle the springs hold. Inside, he tries to process that he has done this again. A century and a half later, and here he is, deeply, desperately in love with a girl who couldn't care less about him. _Again._ It's unbelievable. It's un-fucking-believable.

He grips the steering wheel hard, roaring out his frustration, then flinches when he hears the steering wheel snap off the column.

"Perfect."

He tosses it into the passenger seat, then jumps like a little girl when something _whumps_ against his driver's window.

"What the—"

It _whumps_ again. A purse.

_Elena's_ purse.

She's standing there, staring in at him, face blotchy and tear tracks glistening on both cheeks. He sees her shoulders shake with a sob and his heart cracks into two pieces. He's never felt a sting quite like this.

"I hate you!" she screams, the words muffled by the window.

And then she runs away.

This time, there is no music. There's nothing but the absolute silence of having no damned clue of what just happened.

He walks around her block fifteen times before he decides he has to talk to her. He's pretty sure she's up there. The living room lights have been off for awhile and her bedroom light is still on.

He stands at the sidewalk, frowning up at her window, until the front door swings open, and there she is, keys in hand and an oversized coat open to reveal her Rudolph pajama pants. She hides any surprise she feels upon seeing him quickly.

She takes a breath.

"I thought you were leaving."

"I broke my car."

She arches a brow and then pulls the door closed behind her. He climbs the steps to the porch and then stops, remembering the night he thought he kissed her. And the night she told him she'd lost him forever. And all the nights he knows Stefan has spent on this porch with her laughing in his arms. He steps back off the porch, pretty sure that its cursed.

"I'm taking a drive," she says.

"At midnight in your pajamas?"

"I want to look at Christmas lights, okay?" she snaps and he holds up his hands in surrender. Then he snags the keys from her hand, zipping to the driveway to hop in. He gets the engine on and the heat cranking while she watches on, incredulous.

He rolls down the window as she approaches.

"What do you think you're doing? Adding grand theft auto to your record?"

"I thought we were going to see lights. Maybe pick up hot cocoa. Or hey, maybe talk about why you attacked my car with your purse."

"Now's not a good time," she says, eyeing her house suspiciously.

"Wrong. See, Elena, I'm the _craaazy_ brother," he says, waggling his fingers and bugging his eyes out. "We're going to make time right now or I'm coming down your chimney tonight to do this while the whole family watches on. I'll make popcorn."

He sees the anger coming over her. Her mouth opens and closes, goldfish-style, but she doesn't seem to find anything worth saying. In the end, she relents, yanking the driver's door open.

"I'm driving."

The first five minutes of this ride are the weirdest of his life. He's sitting in the passenger seat of Elena's car, clenching his jaw while she drives aimlessly. Christmas carols are playing in the background, heat is pumping out of the registers, and Elena is perfectly quiet, touring one neighborhood street after the next.

Nat King Cole is talking about roasting chestnuts and Elena's acting like he isn't even in the car. And he would say something, but where should he start? Hell, no. He should keep his mouth shut. Think this through so he doesn't stick his foot in his mouth.

"So…you hate me?" he finally says, because he's never been one for thinking.

She pulls the car to a stop near an old Victorian house with the round turret in the corner and the wraparound porch. White lights glimmer from every surface, making her eyes sparkle as she looks on. She's still admiring the lights when she speaks.

"Do you really think I hate you, Damon?"

"You told me you did."

She tips her chin in that irritating superior way of hers. "You told me _you_ didn't care."

"I don't," he lies.

"If that's the case, then maybe you really should leave!"

"I _tried_ to."

"What, for ten whole seconds?"

"Yeah, well I kind of got distracted by a crazy person who needed my help with an emergency Christmas genealogy project!"

"God, I didn't need your help with Bonnie!"

"You're just—wait. What?"

"I said I didn't need your help with Bonnie," she says softly. "I made that up."

The silence between them stretches. Something's happening here. He can feel it in the air between them. An electric charge that's making him hot and cold at once. He takes a breath and forces himself to drop the irritation. He has a hundred and fifty years on her. It wouldn't kill him to be the bigger person for once.

Well, it might, but he's going to try it anyway.

"What did you need my help with, Elena?"

She bites her lip, tears blooming in those dark, pretty eyes. She holds them back, but only barely, her gaze locked on her lap now. "I need help with a decision."

"What decision?"

"The decision about what to do with you."

All the fluttering things that he's been trying to smother into silence for the past few weeks are doing somersaults in his chest.

Her words hang there for a moment between them. He'd break the silence, but he can't remember how to make words with his lips right now. Or what words are, for that matter.

Elena tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and lifts her eyes to his. "I told Stefan that I left because I wanted to wake up and know I'm safe and that the people I love are safe. I wanted to feel alright on my own again. And I do. So, there's no reason for us to be broken up anymore."

The fluttery things shrivel and die behind his ribs. Maybe there's a '_but'_. There'd better be a _'but' _and it better happen fast or he's going to break her car, too. And this is a cheap little plastic thing. He could shred it like cheese.

"But?" he finally supplies, when his mouth will not stay shut any longer.

"But we are broken up. And it has nothing to do with me needing to feel safe. And it's not because I don't love him, because I do. I love Stefan. He's kind and gentle and-"

"Are we really here to talk about my brother?" he asks, his voice shrill and manic, even to his own ears.

"No," she says, looking alarmed. She shakes her head then, and seems to steel herself for her next words. "No. We're here because you're right. There is something between us."

She swallows hard, her voice thick. "I've tried to ignore it. I've tried to avoid you. I've tried to hate you. I've tried everything I can think of, because…because you are completely insane!"

"Thanks. I'm all warm and fuzzy now."

"I'm serious!" she says. "You're temperamental and you're stubborn and you've done horrible, horrible things. I'd have to be crazy—"

He's incredulous. Pissed. "—You'd have to be _crazy, _Elena?—"

Elena keeps right on going, "—to even think about being with you, Damon,—"

"—I'm listening to this shit—" he stops short, going very still. He holds up one finger. And it's shaking. "Hold on. Go back. What did you just say?"

Elena is like a deer in headlights. Terrified. She licks her lips before answering. "You've done horrible things?"

"No. After that."

She takes a breath, but he doesn't wait for her to speak. He knows damn well what she said.

He leans across the seat, rabbit fast, kissing her hard. He's got one hand in her hair and one on her neck and there isn't even a nanosecond of adjustment before she's kissing him back. It's a fierce, desperate collision of lips and tongues. Her pulse is hammering away against his fingers and he's about to come out of his skin. He's been hungry for this since they kissed in his bedroom. Half-starved for her.

He pulls back just far enough to keep her from going cross-eyed.

"Yes," he says, nodding.

"Yes?" she asks, looking dazed. "Yes, what?"

"Yes to your decision. Take the leap, throw caution to the wind, pick the cliché of your choice, but yes, be with me."

He sees the 'but' in her eyes, but he doesn't want a _'but'_ now, so he kisses her again, more softly this time, lingering over her taste, trailing down to her jaw until she's twisting in her seat, squirming to get closer. God bless vampire speed, because he's got her seat belt off and her firm little body across the middle console and on his lap before she has time to gasp.

Her eyes go wide with surprise, an objection ready on her lips.

"Damon, wait. We can't do this. I haven't decided anything," she says, but he's nipping at her neck and she's arching it just right, giving him access. Her knees slide to either side of his and her fingers curl in his coat, so he's thinking that this decision nonsense is all over but the singing.

"You said you needed help," he says between kisses. "I'm helping."

She half-laughs. "This is not helpful."

"It's helping me," he says, pulling her closer until she lets out a low moan, one that sends fire running through his veins. "You sure it isn't helping? Not even a little?"

She stops him then, pushing away from him so that they're a few inches apart. His hands are at her hips and hers are on his chest, holding him at a distance.

"I'm afraid of this," she says. "Of what _us_ would mean."

The mood shifts and he watches her, waiting for her to speak her piece. Her face is tortured, lips trembling.

"I'm serious, Damon. What if this destroys _him_? What if it destroys the two of you? He's your brother. I can't live with that."

His heart clenches. "But it would be easier to live without me," he supplies.

But then she touches his face and shakes her head. "No, I can't. I've tried."

He laces his fingers with hers, pulling her down until she's crying softly into his neck. It takes him a second to realize what it means. To realize that just as lost as he is. For once in her life, she can't force herself to do the _right_ thing. And it's killing her.

When she finally pulls back, her eyes are red and puffy and she's searching her pockets for a tissue.

"I love you, Elena," he says without preamble. "And I have no idea what that means or how the hell to go about this without it being a disaster for almost everyone we know, but I'm crazy about you," he says, running a hand over the side of her face, watching half a smile bloom on her lips.

"It would take time, Damon. Lots of time. We'd have to take things slow."

"If you're in this, if any part of you is in this _with me…_I'll wait for someday. I'll wait forever. You know I will."

She nods, eyes bright with tears. She doesn't tell him she loves him and he doesn't need her to. The look she's giving him is enough. The kiss she gives him is even better, so soft and every bit as sweet as her soul.

"It feels like someday," she whispers with a tiny smile. "Maybe not for everyone."

"But for you and me?" he asks.

"Maybe," she says.

It's enough for him.

Elena leans in for a kiss, lingering so close to his mouth that he can feel the heat of her breath, and the curve of her lips when she smiles.

"Definitely," she says.

"Definitely is good," he says, pulling her flush with his body and breathing her in. "Yeah, definitely works for me."


End file.
